


tea

by romanoff



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Exhaustion, Fluff, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:16:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21720163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: It's been many years. They're both tired.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 221





	tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CircleUp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircleUp/gifts).



Steve drinks tea, now. He couldn’t tell you exactly when he made the switch – two years ago? Maybe three? After that mess with the junkie with Kree tech. Or maybe it was after the New Marxists tried to level Manhattan.

Anyway. He drinks tea. He never much cared for coffee; it’s bitter, leaves a funny taste in your mouth he never accustomed to. Once, in cold camps, with damp clothes and 12-hour patrols, he’d probably needed it. But at some point he figured, hey, I don’t like coffee, I don’t need coffee, why bother?

So now, he drinks tea.

He slips the kettle off the stove, pours it into the mug. It’s old, and whatever had been emblazoned on the side has worn off with age. He thinks one of Clint’s kids might have painted it for him, but he’s guilty to admit he can’t remember which one. He knows it had been a clumsy shield, with the words America No.1!, and for some reason he still uses it, all these years later.

He makes Tony coffee. He doesn’t agree with Steve’s switch. He thinks, at first, he might have tried to drag him along with it, because caffeine is bad for you and Tony’s always used it as a substitute for a real night’s sleep. He had humoured Steve, for a while. Couple weeks, maybe. It’s fine. Life’s short, so, take your comforts where you can, right?

He can feel Natasha’s smirk even before she brushes her hip up against his, shimmying him out of the way of the cookie jar. “He’s passed out, you know.”

“Chocolate chip or thin mint?” He asks in lieu of addressing her statement.

“Peanut butter toast. And maybe you should just let him sleep.”

Steve politely doesn’t say anything, just continues steeping the tea. It’s green. And he respects Natasha’s opinion, but he doesn’t agree, and so when she sighs, gently squeezing the tight muscle that runs from shoulder to throat, he only hums.

She unclips her earring, rests it on the counter. She’s still wearing her evening gown, but has swapped the heels for soft moleskin slippers.

“You looked handsome tonight,” she says softly, leaning back against the counter, folding her arms.

That butters him up, slightly. He allows himself a small smile. “Yeah, well. I will not rest ‘til the scourge of, uh…”

“Type 1 diabetes.”

“Right. Until it’s been eradicated, so.” He half shrugs, spreads some peanut butter on a slice of toast.

“Don’t forget the blueberries,” Natasha says, then, which is how Steve knows allow she doesn’t like the fact he’s going to prod Tony awake, she’s going to allow it. She pats his arm as she leaves, forgets her diamonds on the counter.

Tony’s all stretched out in his armchair, shoes kicked off, bowtie slung over his neck, shirt unbuttoned. There’s some kind of motherboard in his lap, red wires and tape, and the screwdriver is held limply in his left hand. It’s not just tonight – Tony is always tired, these days. Especially since what they did to him in the Cape.

But if Steve lets him snooze, he’ll wake up in the early hours unable to get back to sleep. He knows this from experience. He softly sets the toast and coffee on the small table, sits himself on the couch. Maybe, he allows himself to quietly watch the rise and fall of Tony’s chest, the new, deeper lines around his eyes. He’s stopped dying his hair. It’s all grey through the roots. And he resists the urge to fetch a blanket and drape it over his legs and just let him rest.

After some time, he lightly reaches out, grips his knee. It feels bony under his hands, weak, even though – Tony isn’t weak, not physically. At least, he doesn’t look it. Getly, then, he shakes him awake.

Tony regards him, eyes half-shut. “Hmm?” He says, rolling his head upright from where it had been heavy against his shoulder. “Oh, Cap. I must’ve… uh, must’ve just passed out.”

He yawns, and Steve wordlessly hands him the coffee. He drinks without even asking what it is, holds it between two hands like a kid with a sippy cup. He had his hair smoothed back for the gala; now it’s all loose and skew-if on his head.

Steve props his head on his fist while Tony smacks his lips, stretches out his legs. “Sorry to wake you,” he says, quietly. “Figured you’d kill me I let you kill your rhythm again.”

“Natasha disagreed,” Tony says, knowingly. He buries in head in the mug.

Steve sighs, cups his own tea. “She’s growing soft in her old age.”

Tony snorts, swallows, and rests the mug back on the table. “Yeah,” he agrees, groaning slightly as he reaches forward to put down his motherboard. “God, I hate those things,” he says.

“So do I,” Steve murmurs, knowing that Tony means the gala. “You’d think they’d get easier, huh?”

“Steve, I’ve been doing them for forty years. They don’t get easier.”

Which figures. Nothing gets easier, at least, not for them.

They sip their drinks in companionable silence. Tony eats his toast, makes small-talk about what people wore, and who’s been fucking who, and where money changed hands. Steve is content to listen to him. He doesn’t know why, but recently he’s felt on borrowed time with Tony, like he needs to make every second count. Shut his eyes and remember exactly how he sounds, in these moments, when he’s just talking.

“About next week,” Steve starts, guiltily, when Tony has tapered off.

“Caracas,” Tony clarifies.

“Right. I was going to say – don’t feel like you have to come. I mean – unless you want to.”

Tony is silent for a time, considering. “Why would I not want to?” He asks, measured.

Steve shrugs. “We’ll be under, most of the time. I know it’s estimated three nights, but I’m thinking – maybe a week. Even two. Which is a long time…”

For someone of your age to be sleeping on a shack floor eating military rations, is what he wants to say. It’s not like Tony is old-old. But if he was in the military, he’d have moved to desk work a while back.

Tony sniffs. He licks his thumb, dabs at crumbs on his plate. “You got someone else to do the plumbing?” Plumbing. That’s what Tony calls it, all the nitty-gritty tech-work he does that Steve doesn’t understand.

“Nick suggested Richards.”

Tony snorts. “So that’s a no, then.”

“We can take Richards,” Steve presses. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

“And if I find out on Tuesday Caracas has turned into a giant sinkhole? Who should I blame then? Richards, for being incompetent, or myself, for being too lazy to see it out?”

There’s only a touch of bite in his tone. Steve should count himself lucky.

He doesn’t say, Caracas won’t turn into a sinkhole. Instead, he says, “That would never be your fault. People have to stop eventually. You’re not lazy.”

“Mmm,” Tony agrees. His eyes are tired. “Maybe – hey. Maybe I’ll sit the next one out, okay? After this. Promise.”

Tony smiles encouragingly, nodding. Steve knows he’s lying. But it makes Tony happy when Steve believes him. He thinks, it means Tony half-believes it himself.

So.

“Sure,” Steve says, heavily. He exhales, rests his hand on Tony’s knee, squeezes. “Next time.”

He finishes his tea. It’s gone cold.


End file.
